


The Buck

by TheThingsWeDoToday



Category: Supernatural
Genre: One Shot, Teen Dean Winchester, Teen Sam Winchester, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 08:18:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13783503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheThingsWeDoToday/pseuds/TheThingsWeDoToday
Summary: Dean Winchester is not a bitch.He's not afraid to shoot one stupid little deer.Shut up.





	The Buck

**Author's Note:**

> Idk what the fuck this is but!!! Enjoy!!! This is inspired from a gif of Bobby I saw but I have no idea what episode it was from. So.

It's cold. Fuckin' freezing. The air feels grey and sharp and metallic, and dad says it's probably going to snow at some point within the next week. Dean's got his fingers wrapped around his rifle, and he's kicking himself for refusing the pair of gloves Bobby tried to give him. He'll have to pry his frozen fingers off from around the gun when the time comes to actually use it. Dead, decaying leaves serve as a forest floor as he tromps miserably along behind Bobby, who's whistling something obnoxiously cheery and ironically lighthearted. The muck on the ground slicks the toes of Dean's boots with water and mud and bits of rotting plant matter, and who knows what else. He tells Sam that the wet leaves would make a nice wig for him - would make him look pretty - and Sam tells him to fuck off.  
  
Twelve years old and the kid is just discovering his love for cursing. Really gets dad pissed sometimes, the way he runs his pre-teen mouth. He'll yell at Sam and then Sam'll yell back that John was probably using worse language at his age, which is true, and everyone knows it. Then dad'll tell Sam that he's being a brat and that he should learn to take orders from his father without questioning everything - which is also true, and everybody seems to know it except Sam himself.  
  
Dean hopes he didn't act like that when he was Sam's age.  
  
The reason they're out here in this fucking forest in the fucking cold in fucking Minnesota (so far North Dean swears they've probably unknowingly crossed the border by now), is because Bobby gets irritated very easily.   
  
He gets irritated when he's stuck in a motel room with two boys and their grumpy father for half a week. He gets irritated when he's been helping John with this damn hunt for days now, and they aren't getting anywhere. He gets irritated when those two boys get bored of being cooped up and they start to bicker, and pull each other's hair, and now Sam's crying because "that fucking hurt," and now he's crying harder because dad lost his shit at him for saying "fuck".  
  
So Bobby gets tired of being irritated and decides to blow off a little steam. Give John a little space. He pulls on a jacket and a vest over that, packs a couple rifles into a bag, and drags Dean out the door by the back of the shirt. Sam follows along like a puppy just because he's dying to get out of the motel room, and Bobby tells the boys they're going hunting. Not the usual kind of hunting. Not the kind Dean's used to. The regular,  _mundane_ kind. The kind with mud and twigs and animals and cold cold cold it's fucking _cold_.  
  
So now here they are, dragging themselves through the bare branches and the biting air, and they're gritting their teeth to keep from complaining  _too_ much, or else Bobby will snap. Dean supposes there  _is_ a sort of prettiness to it all, all the muted orange and burgundy and silver of the forest around him. He's always preferred overcast days to sunny ones, anyway. But then he remembers that he's tired and he didn't want to be out here in the first place and he can actually feel his toes snapping off inside his boots.  
  
"What exactly are we lookin' for?" Dean calls up ahead toward Bobby, who's acting like they're in fuckin' Disneyland.  
  
"Anything with two eyes and a heartbeat that ain't named Sam or Dean," comes the man's reply.  
  
"So, you?" Dean asks, a smirk already blossoming on his chapped lips.   
  
Bobby turns around, fixes Dean with a stare.  
  
"You're hilarious, kid." He rolls his eyes and continues on through the brush.  
  
Why thank you, Dean thinks, but he shuts up.  
  
They walk for at least another twenty minutes. The sun never really shows up, and the air remains a comfortable, murky grey. It's still fucking cold, mind you, but they're out there freezing their asses off anyway, so they may as well get used to it. Dean lets himself wonder if dad is getting anywhere with the research, then realizes that the poor man is probably just using the peace and quiet that comes with the boys being gone to take a nap, or something.  
  
Somewhere in between all the walking, Sam gets tired of the silence - or maybe he just can't bear to go that long without hearing himself speak - and he starts yapping on about this haunted forest he read about in a book. How he thinks it might actually be the real deal.  
  
As he talks about it, Dean can tell he's sort of unintentionally scared himself, because he starts looking sharply back over his shoulder at every snapped twig or gust of wind. He still gets pretty scared about stuff, sometimes. He doesn't like to be left alone, in any situation whatsoever. Plus, he gets night terrors pretty often, and Dean is always the one to wake him up and tell him he's dreaming. Bring him water and whatever the fuck else he needs and try to calm him down. Dean can't really blame the kid, but he sure as hell can make fun of him.  
  
"What's the matter, Sammy?" He asks as if he's just checking in, but he and Sam both know it's a jab.  
  
"Nothin'," Sam replies, and he's got that defensive expression on his face that Dean loves to be the cause of.  
  
Dean speeds up a bit so that he's beside Sam instead of traipsing along behind him, and Bobby's far enough ahead that he doesn't really hear any of what they're saying.  
  
"This forest isn't haunted, Sam."  
  
"I know that, dummy. I was just sayin' I read about one that _is_."  
  
Dean laughs.   
  
"Okay, well. I was just making sure. You looked a little spooked, is all." He shrugs like he's not being a total ass, and nudges Sam on the shoulder. "Make sure nothing's following behind you, yeah?" He smirks into Sam's ear and then picks up the pace again, leaving his brother behind him, scared and scrambling to catch up on his short legs.  
  
"Dean!" Sam calls, trying to get to his brother and check over his shoulder for ghosts at the same time. "Dean, you asshole, wait u- _fuck_!"  
  
Sam slams straight into Dean's back, who only a few seconds earlier had slammed into Bobby's.  
  
"Shut up," Dean says quietly, tossing the words over his shoulder in Sam's general direction. He's got his eyes trained on the thing that made Bobby stop in the first place.  
  
They've reached a sort of clearing, an open area of trodden grass and low shrubbery, free of trees except for the ones surrounding it and dotting the edges. The grass looks like a dusty and faded sort of blue, like the color has been sucked out of the blades by the damp, icy weather. Everything is muted.  
  
Hushed.  
  
Silent.  
  
Stock-fucking-still.  
  
There's a deer in the middle of the clearing.   
  
A buck, actually. He's still got his velvety antlers attached to his head, and he's just standing there. Staring.  
  
Every single monster that Dean's ever dealt with has had the ability to spill his fucking guts out through his stomach. It's an ever-present threat, and he knows it. The difference here, though, is that spirits are _predictable_. Animals aren't. He's realizing it more and more as he breathes white clouds of air over Bobby's shoulder, taking in the sight of the buck. It looks rigid, stiff, and sinewy. It hasn't moved a single one of its muscles; there has been no flash of tendons tensing under skin. No movement whatsoever. It knows that they are watching. It knows they've come to kill it.   
  
If it wanted to, it could be on them in four fucking strides, boring into all three of them at once with its antlers, or kicking them so hard their ribs break and their chest cavities cave in.  
  
But it doesn't.  
  
It just stands there, all calm but wary, minding its own business.  
  
Dean fucking  _respects_ this thing.  
  
After god only knows how long, the creature goes back to grazing, just like it had been doing when it sensed Bobby and the boys coming and snapped its head up in the first place.

It's not like it's the first time Dean's ever seen a deer. Far from it, in fact. It's just that he's been miserable all day, and he's gonna lose his fingers to hypothermia, and it feels really fuckin' nice to appreciate something beautiful and strong that he doesn't have to exorcise or shoot with rock salt first.  
  
Once the animal's guard is down, Bobby's moving so fucking slowly Dean can hardly stand it. The man steps forward a little so that he has room to turn around and face the boys.  
  
"Okay," he says, his voice reverent. He looks at the boys like he's expecting them to do something, and he seems to have forgotten that Dean hasn't actually shot something  _living_ for a good year or so.  
  
He really needs to take these boys hunting more often.  
  
"Dean. It's your shot."  
  
Dean looks at him. Looks at the buck. Looks at his rifle.  
  
"Come on, son. This damn thing isn't gonna wait around all day. I trust you know where to aim."  
  
Bobby waits expectantly, but Dean doesn't dare move a fucking muscle.  
  
"I could shoot this thing myself, boy, but then what the hell did I drag /you/ all the way out here for, hm?" Bobby's voice sounds a little weird because he's trying to be assertive, but he can't afford to raise his voice.  
  
"Come on, Dean," comes Sam's voice from behind. Small and urging. "Shoot it." But he sounds unsure, like a baby copying somebody's words without really understanding what they mean.  
  
Dean glances at Bobby one more time, then cocks his rifle. Raises it meticulously to his eye. Finds the most perfect fucking angle to shoot the damn thing, but the sound of the gun had startled it and now it's just  _staring._  
  
And it won't fucking stop.  
  
Dean breathes out through his mouth, wonders if the animal knows that it's making direct eye contact. Wonders if it's doing that on purpose.  
  
Dean stands at the ready long enough for his shoulders to ache. He should just pull the trigger, drop his arms to his sides, shake out the kinks in his muscles. Go collect his fuckin' trophy.  
  
But instead he's locked in an eternal staring contest, and he can't do it. He just can't.  
  
It's not fair.  
  
He hadn't wanted to come. He'd wanted to stay at the motel with dad, but Bobby had put his foot down and insisted he come along. Partake in some friendly, boyish activities.  
  
'Friendly' his _ass_.  
  
The buck probably doesn't enjoy the cold anymore than Dean does. It probably gets real bad around the thing's skinny little ankles, and the ears, and the face. Dean is willing to bet it feels like hell out here in the sharp, bitter wind and the unforgiving morning frost, and god forbid when it actually starts snowing. All the deer has is a tiny layer of fur to keep it warm, which probably is not the most fun thing in the world. And here comes Dean, tromping along to make your life way worse - make your life /end/ - with a gun.   
  
The poor thing is scared. Absolutely terrified. It can feel cold and it can feel pain and it is  _scared._  
  
Two eyes and a heartbeat.  
  
It's staring right at Dean, right at its killer, and he can practically see it begging with its eyes. The only way it knows how to beg. It's not fucking fair. Dean is not some pussy bitch, okay? He just has a heart. That's all. The buck was going about its business, keeping to itself. It didn't ask Dean to come along and shoot it, that's for sure. The longer Dean looks into its eyes, the more he knows that he  _cannot shoot this animal._  
  
He just can't.  
  
He just fucking  _can't._  
  
Sue him.  
  
Bobby makes a gesture with his hands like _let's move this along_ , and right at the same time, Sam half-whispers:  
  
"It's like Bambi-"  
  
And Dean is fuckin' done for.  
  
He drops the gun straight down onto the frozen dirt, and if it hits his numb toes on the way down, who can say? He swipes at his eyes quickly, refusing to meet the glare that Bobby is most definitely giving him.  
  
"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't... I don't want to. I'm sorry."  
  
Bobby puts a hand on his shoulder, and Dean can feel his cheeks flush red. When he looks up, the deer is gone.  
  
"That's okay, kid," Bobby says. It's not sarcastic or anything, and Dean understands that Bobby really, truly isn't gonna judge him for this. He is grateful.  
  
On the walk back, Bobby tells them a story about a girl he met in high school, and the utter catastrophe that was his first kiss. Dean and Sam are both laughing their asses off by the time they reach the truck, and Dean doesn't even realize that he forgot to bitch about the cold on the way back.  
  
• • •  
  
"So?" John asks as they enter the room, an eyebrow raised. He's got a mess of papers spread out on the table in front of him, and he's sucking from a cigarette like it's his goddamn lifeline.  
  
Dean opens his mouth to respond, but Bobby beats him to it.  
  
"Nothin," he says, shrugging. "Not even a single damn deer."

He catches Dean's eye and winks.

"Too bad," John says, already losing himself into his research again. "I bet Dean would've been a damn good shot."


End file.
